The Soul of the Poet
For him,
What can be said?
He is beyond
My eyes penetration.
He has depths
Too long for any drill.
Even here,
he is so thoroughly
Physical. We
Understand, comprehend
His nature.
The body of the poet
Escapes not
The probes of critique.
Painted, encrusted
With gems of ink and
acrylic dreams.
The heart of the poet,
paper-filled.
Not a virginal beat,
hiding away.
Rather, a life lived
Fair and long.
The lips of the poet
are silent.
But his hands do little
But write.
On love, death, and sleep,
He meditates.
The soul of the poet
Is unreal.
Beyond us, it resides.
Full of
Passion for God
He hides.
The true tragedy he writes
is for hearts.
Hearts he cannot feel,
or hope for.
Says the Arabic script:
Jigar khoon.
My heart bleeds
for the soul of the poet.
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